


High Flying, Adored

by themillersson



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, Implied Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themillersson/pseuds/themillersson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They loved you,” Kurt heard himself say, disappointment and betrayal and wistfulness in a voice that barely sounded like his own. Blaine had smiled sadly in response, but Kurt could feel the stiff tension in his body. “Will you stay here?” he asked, and didn’t add 'and fight.' (Unspecified historical AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Flying, Adored

**Author's Note:**

> _harmlessthings is sort of fantastic.
> 
> The title is stolen from 'Evita,' although the setting is unspecified and the events of the story are not intended to mirror any specific historical occurrence.

His escort was late, but Kurt couldn’t bring himself to care. His eyes were fixed on a point out the window, four stories and a pane of glass and an entire world separating him from the mob below as they swirled about in the square beyond the walls of the presidential compound. A few of them were standing on top of cars or benches and screaming to be heard above the general frenzy, the muted sound carrying back to his ears as a discordant rumble, nothing more. He crossed his arms more tightly and gazed at them through glassy eyes, resisting the urge to curl his lip.

He’d gotten better at not showing his disdain, ever since Blaine had taken him by the elbow and steered him away from a nonplussed reporter, smiling charmingly at the woman before carefully explaining to Kurt, once they were out of her hearing, that while he found Kurt’s prickliness to be endearing, the public and the press would not. Kurt had listened, not happy about having to reign in his barbed tongue, but not wanting to be the cause of Blaine being held back, either. So he had slowly learned to focus on light witticisms rather than scathing insults, and it had helped – Blaine’s new public relations advisers had reported that his approval ratings managed to be higher than Blaine’s, even after accounting for the fact that Kurt wasn’t the one forced to make unpleasant compromises in the name of politics. Blaine had grinned at him and spread his hands wide expressively, and Kurt had laughed, shaking his head.

But now the mob in the square was milling around more purposefully, and Kurt couldn’t stifle the rush of irritation as a few climbed onto the pedestal alongside the statue of his husband (“Really, Blaine?” he’d smirked when it was commissioned, “I knew you had a Napoleonic complex, but isn’t that a bit cliché?”). Their opinions were so easily changed, he reflected contemptuously as one shouted into the assembled mob for something and was tossed a bundle of ropes. One day, they were shouting for Blaine to take over, to fix the problems that had been plaguing them and the shame of their global unimportance, then next, they were screaming for his blood because he hadn’t lived up to every single one of their expectations. And, yes, maybe the country was failing fast, but it wasn’t as if they could blame that all on one man’s policies.

Blaine’s major flaw, Kurt had realized years ago, back when they were starry-eyed teenagers with little concern for the world outside of how it affected them, was that he hated to upset people. He was naturally charming and inclined to like everyone, so when people were angry and blamed him, he became confused and tried to soothe them rather than ignoring the idiots, as Kurt maintained was healthier. He’d gotten better about it eventually and Kurt was glad that Blaine had learned that sometimes one had to step on toes to get anything done, but at heart he would always be the guy who would stick his neck out on behalf of an stupid, idealistic promise. The mob’s shouting was growing more frenzied as the men standing with the statue began winding their ropes around it. Apparently the years of impossible promises had finally caught up with him.

Kurt wished the sun would come out, at least. The clouds overhead were thematically appropriate, in a desolate way, but he’d rather have a backdrop of midnight to facilitate dramatic lighting or a sunny day to highlight his unconcern with the situation. Instead, it was just damp and cool, and the skies threatened a pathetic drizzle. Soon his escort would arrive and he’d have to be marched through the halls of the mansion he’d held court from, then be escorted to the airport while illuminated by unflattering half-light. He hoped that the photographers’ flashes didn’t wash him out too badly. He wasn’t about to be embarrassed by his clothing though, at least. It was just a tasteful black jacket and slacks, but they were exquisitely tailored and were quietly, but obviously, expensive – a small detail, but Kurt couldn’t help thinking of it as one last dig at the people who’d forced him out of a position he’d finally become comfortable in.

Apart from the muffled sounds of the mob, no noises carried to him. He knew he wasn’t alone in the building, the household staff and low-level aides were still dithering about and trying to prepare for whoever would force their way in next – it didn’t affect him anymore, but Kurt hoped it wasn’t that troglodyte from the opposition, if only because the woman had no taste for art of any sort and would probably let the state-run programs he had made his pet project go to ruin. Also, she had hideous taste in interior decoration and would embarrass the entire country when foreign diplomats came for a visit. Kurt liked to think that the country’s recent reputation for culture had developed mostly because of his insistence to Blaine on a modicum of good taste. A clatter came from somewhere deeper in the mansion, but he didn’t even blink at the noise. There was enough chaos outside, he reflected with disgust, why wouldn’t it bleed through the wrought-iron fence and white stone walls?

He was the only one of Blaine’s immediate circle left in the capital; all of his cabinet had left the night before, slipping past the borders before they could be arrested like the unlucky three who had attracted the most ire from the population (Kurt hadn’t cared for them, personally, but he disliked the idea of any of Blaine’s associates being arrested – it implied too much danger for people he did care about). There had been shouting on the radio for weeks, overwhelming any attempt to quell it, but it had reached a fever pitch on the previous day. When the tension finally broke and spilled into the streets to the sound of glass breaking and law enforcement officers throwing down their badges, Blaine had listened with a smooth expression to the aide shakily reporting statistics on damage and desertions and lost causes. Then he calmly dismissed everyone and sat down at his desk to write a series of letters, ignoring Kurt’s urging to get out onto a balcony or in front of a microphone and _say something_ , if only as a gesture of defiance to the base elements of society that thought this would solve anything. Eventually, once all the letters had been folded and stamped fastidiously, Blaine’s hand lingering on the seal of office for a moment as he set it down for the last time, Kurt had leaned over the back of the chair and wound his arms around Blaine’s neck, sighing into his hair. Blaine had clung to him briefly, and they both tried not to think about the way it was supposed to go, the way it had gone in all of their plans. “They loved you,” Kurt had heard himself say, disappointment and betrayal and wistfulness in a voice that barely sounded like his own. Blaine smiled sadly in response, but Kurt could feel the stiff tension in his body. “Will you stay here?” he asked, and didn’t add _and fight_.

Blaine had left. A contingent of men in uniform, men who had once saluted Blaine and followed his directions, men who had sworn oaths to him, came to the door and rapped on it, then handed Blaine a letter that was hastily printed but official-looking. Kurt had slipped his hand into Blaine’s and glared at the impassive officers as they waited for Blaine to finish reading. Kurt felt the tremors in his husband’s hand, but Blaine was calm and collected as he slid on his coat and left with them. Kurt watched him disappear with the soft click of a closing door, crossing his arms so that he wouldn’t reach for him. He took a steadying breath in the sudden silence. Then he called in his secretary and spent the next hour in frantic activity; he sent urgent messages to everyone he could think of, from foreign dignitaries who owed favors to business owners with local leverage to the fathers and wives of the officers. All of the military men had been carrying guns – part of the standard uniform, but Kurt knew how these things went (it had been the same when Blaine was given power in the first place, not that either of them found out until it was over – Kurt didn’t like to think about that or the handful of disappearances since, except that on those nights, Blaine would bury his face in his neck and whisper questions that neither of them could answer).

There was satisfaction in knowing now that it had worked, that Blaine was safely granted asylum with three borders between them and his supporters regrouping around him. It didn’t quite soothe the slow burn that came from watching now, though, as the men in the square wound ropes around the statue and tossed the ends into the crowd, loops of misappropriated hemp winding tight over the monument. A ragged wordless cheer went up loud enough for Kurt to almost make out individual voices in the multitude. Someone had told him once that the mob’s noise sounded the same whether they were screaming abuse or cheering, and Kurt reflected that they might have had a point, although he would have happily taken a rally full of ecstatic supporters over the harsh cries of the angry mass below. He didn’t particularly care what they thought, not like Blaine did, but the adulation of an entire country had been admittedly nice while it lasted, and it turned out to be easier to ignore the discordance of the screaming when it was in one’s favor.

The policemen in the crowd were conspicuous in their dark uniforms, but despite the chaos, they didn’t do anything to quiet their companions. Kurt’s eyes slid over them with contemptuous disinterest as he scanned the crowd again, taking in the workday clothes of most of the rioters. The burliest of them were tugging on the ropes, a space opening around them as they heaved, the edges of the cleared area vacillating as the mob pushed against itself. The noise began to fluctuate; almost-silences falling, punctuated by individual cries, then a low roar building up again until cheers were tearing from hundreds of throats, their words indistinguishable and garbled probably even to them. Kurt caught joyful exhortations of “pull!” rising above the muted sound. His gaze sharpened as a maenadic “take him down!” drifted up from below.

Booted feet landed heavily on the carpet behind him, but Kurt didn’t turn around yet. They had made him wait, they could handle a few more minutes’ delay while he watched the low drama outside come to its depressingly cliché conclusion. The crowd continued oscillating mindlessly as he stood serene and still in contemptuous counterpoint, the throng pressing forward before surging back away from the attempt to topple the statue. His back was straight and stiff, and he lifted his chin as a cracking sound rent the air like a gunshot, the tiny figures holding the ropes jolting forward as the statue broke from its base, quivering and hesitating forward before settling back onto its pedestal. He stared down at the square and watched them heave with renewed frantic energy, the shouting stopping for a moment before rising to a wall of joyful screams. A muted screech of bolts, a breathless second that lasted an eternity, and a crash. He didn’t look away until the statue had fallen and was laying rigid and cracked on the cobblestones, the men with ropes falling forward themselves at the sudden give. His last glimpse of it as he finally turned around was the mob swarming forward to close over the statue. They would either shatter it or take souvenirs or both, and he neither knew nor cared – it had been a rather petty symbol, anyway.

There weren’t as many officers in the doorway as had come for Blaine. Apparently they could only spare only two and a handful of soldiers, none that he recognized. There was an official of some kind with them, as well. Kurt surveyed them all without making an attempt at politeness. It wasn’t his business what they thought of him anymore. The official cleared his throat nervously under the scrutiny and recited something about coming with them so that he could leave the country without over-excited citizens harassing him, the implied threat couched in carefully political language. Kurt thought he might have seen the man around Blaine before – a junior aide of some kind, unremarkable except for his wide-eyed unfamiliarity with the workings of a meeting on that day. When the official was done, Kurt rolled his eyes and nodded because they were all looking at him expectantly.

Without waiting for them to gesture or issue instructions, he uncrossed his arms and strode across the room with his chin held high, passing through the group and allowing himself a private shiver of relief when they didn’t attempt to restrain him or reach for their guns. He stopped a few paces away and looked back at the nonplussed men expectantly. “You’re supposed to be escorting me, aren’t you?” He continued sharply without giving them time to reply, “We’re using the front entrance, have your convoy pull up in the main circle.” As he stalked off down the hallway, the group half-jogging to catch up, he let his lips twist slightly. Disgrace or none, he’d be damned if he didn’t make a properly dramatic exit.

The sounds of the mob echoed into the hall through every open doorway, drowning out the sound of their footsteps and the subtle clink of holstered guns.


End file.
